Upon The Yuletide
by Ceasefire
Summary: [Royai Fluff, end of series spoilers] Roy reflects on the winter he spent with Riza in Ishvar, and the winter almost a decade later that made him change his mind about the whole season.


Many happy returns to Rex Bandit and Luvin Aoshi, who wanted Royai for Christmas.

* * *

He had received his Yuletide gift that year in the form of her small hand slipping into his; the hand that had just been forcibly relieved of the bottle of rum, the hand he had once used to hold a gun to his own chin. He was sitting outside his tent, in the cold (but he was warm thanks to the drink in his hand) yet knowing it would never get cold enough for snow in Ishvar. That was yet another difference between home and here - hell.

Perhaps what they had needed was news of home, of a better place away from here. That would have helped the others at least, Roy thought, because he knew he would receive no gifts, no semblance of well-wishing even at this time of the year. The trains carrying supplies – not just supplies of war, but supplies of normality, supplies of _hope_ – were attacked, and their gifts were lost to the flames engulfing frail wooden carriages; jumpers knitted by mothers for sons, letters signed in large, awkward handwriting by children, poems that spoke of love and longing written on rough paper.

And then there was the illegality; forbidden to smoke, to drink yet no one seemed to care. Vows of chastity were broken, and on a monotonous basis. And Major Roy Mustang found himself sitting outside his tent, faithful bottle in one hand and the other making a valiant effort to keep himself upright, all the while Hughes's voice from a few tents over making his head throb at the repetitive syntax of "having lost one letter from his darling Gracia".

He didn't notice Hawkeye until she spoke, a quiet and calming influence in the back of his addled mind.

"You shouldn't be drinking, Sir."

"Oh, but Second Lieutenant, I'm _celebrating_," he replied, shoving the half-empty bottle under her nose for effect.

"Believe it or not," she started, gently prising his fingers off the dark brown bottle one at a time, "There are ways to celebrate without getting drunk."

"How?" Roy snorted, his fingers twitching so badly from the absence of the cool glass it was pathetic.

"Being with the people you care about."

When she received a blank look from the Major in response, Hawkeye gave a little sigh and sat down next to him, throwing the bottle to her right in the process despite a near-pathetic sound of protest from her superior.

"My parents died young, Sir. I can't remember them at all; my grandparents raised me. My grandfather is a busy and successful man, and he was sometimes away for days, even at this time of year. My grandmother always said that we had to wait for him to open presents, so we'd sit up until I fell asleep. He had a habit of coming home shortly after I dozed off, apparently..."

She paused, lost in thought for the briefest of moments.

"The point I was trying to make with that was that even though I waited up until the early hours for whatever doll or dress I was getting that year, I always enjoyed having my grandfather home more than any material desire."

"... Doll? Dress?"

"They tried their very best to make me like dolls and not guns, Sir," she replied with a small, dry smile.

Mustang paused and sighed, considering his answer.

"I'm afraid, Second Lieutenant, that I still cannot relate. This season never meant anything out of the norm to me."

"I see," she responded, using her own knee for support as she stood, "Perhaps one day you will, Major." And with that, she slipped her slim fingers in between his, swollen from alchemy used too often and gave a small squeeze. Skin parted quickly but nerves did not forget the contact soon.

Roy had never quite realized the irony of the words she had chosen until now; a decade later, a decade that had changed his life more than any other period in his life.

The day had started normally; Riza was always awake before he was, feeding Black Hayate and preparing a breakfast that she put in the oven to keep warm until he awoke. He slipped the dark patch over his eye, having finally gained the courage to show her the scars underneath the comparatively broad expanse of material, and strolled into the kitchen with his dark blue military issue coat on, and nothing else.

"Would it kill you to get changed?"

"This is the warmest thing I own."

"It'd be even warmer if you added extra layers underneath," she replied, fighting the smile that threatened to overtake despite her serious tone.

They ate in comfortable silence, with Hayate snuffling around their feet and licking at crumbs they'd dropped on the floor. Roy slipped the dog half of his last piece of bacon, and sheepishly explained to a stern-looking Riza that it was a "holiday treat".

They don't visit his family; instead, they line up at the crowded Central platform at take a train to the East that's so full that Hawkeye is forced to sit on Roy's lap to allow room for an elderly-looking man and the person who appeared to be his young grandson.

Roy is greeted jovially by Peter Grumman and his wife Charlotte, and for the next few hours Roy is treated as a grandson as much as Riza is a granddaughter (perhaps it is wishful thinking, Roy thinks, or even perception that caused this, or perhaps just the fact that one day they hoped to call him a grandson by law instead of by the same hospitality they'd always shown), and they share tales of the military, of the country and also share food prepared by Charlotte, who insisted on making the Yuletide meal herself, as she used to do before Grumman was a General, before they had maids and cooks to serve them, before they grew old but not out of love.

It is late in the night when the last of the deliciously aged mead is gone and they run out of things to talk about but still find comfortable things to say, and even though they are offered lodgings for the night they decline and rush through the snow, and he resists the urge to laugh like a smitten teenager as snowflakes fall into her golden hair. The train is almost bare this time around, and the lack of heating is more than made up for by the heat of Riza's body, the arms they have wrapped around one another for warmth from the seasonal cold.

He fumbles in the dark to get the key in the lock after they return to their home (not just hers anymore, but his as well) and after she gave that same sigh he first heard in Ishvar and did the job for him, he would walk in the direction of their bedroom shrug his clothes off and wait for her to return from feeding Black Hayate, the snow on the bedroom window making little spider web patterns on frosted glass.

And once he'd felt the light dip in the mattress from her weight, feel the warmth of her body through the blankets, he would move over and kiss her on the neck. She, in turn, would remove his eye patch, baring him of every guard an intention and make love to him with hands fisted in hair, lips against cheek and neck and collarbone and withreckless abandon that still made him give a small, stunned smile.

After all, he would lie with her in his arms and continue to stare, transfixed at the patterned snow on the glass; coldness he once loathed but now cherished after spending a year in a place with no beauty... or little beauty, he added as an afterthought, feeling Riza's soft, warm breath against his shoulder.

Yuletide had never meant anything special to Roy Mustang until one year when his Second Lieutenant Hawkeye had taken his hand and given him her trust, her life, her love. Now, he had all those things and more; but most of all, he had the realization that it was the season to spend with those you loved.

**END**


End file.
